


It's Just a Cold Visage and the Hasty Tongues

by ArtsyAfrodite



Series: And Slowly We Piece Ourselves Unbroken [2]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Bipolar Disorder, Bipolar Ian, Gallavich, Gen, M/M, Protection, Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-06
Updated: 2014-07-06
Packaged: 2018-02-07 15:57:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1904988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArtsyAfrodite/pseuds/ArtsyAfrodite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first fight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Just a Cold Visage and the Hasty Tongues

**Author's Note:**

> So...I decided to make a series (And Slowly We Piece Ourselves Unbroken) stemming off of "Aegis." I have writer's block (again) for my WIP's, so I figured writing one shots and ficlets about the things that Ian and Mickey go through post Ian's hospital release would help. I wrote this one pretty quickly. Hope you enjoy! :)

The first time, Ian nearly breaks his hand.  Mickey, he breaks his ego.

A glass of vodka sits in the middle of the kitchen table, half full – or in this case, half _empty_.  This is Mickey’s third glass, drunkenness something he’s desperate for after the shit show him and Ian just put on.  He feels eyes piercing the back of his head, but he refuses to turn around, the breathing noises Ian makes when he’s frustrated something he’s accustomed to, and far too tired to acknowledge.  “I told you,” Mickey starts as he grabs up the glass of vodka, “you need to go to the fucking emergency room.  Ice ain’t gonna help.”

Ian says nothing.  He remains almost silent, the way he exacerbates his breaths making Mickey bring the glass up to his lips, tipping it back eagerly as a burn that his throat is getting too used to trails down his chest.  He keeps his back to the red head, the kitchen already becoming less focused as things begin to spin. 

He and Ian have fought before.  This, Mickey is well aware of, the physical hits he’s thrown at him, the harsh words said and the actual bodily harm he knows he’s caused at some point in his life something proverbial in the up-down ride their relationship has been.  However, this is the first time they’ve fought since Ian’s been home from the hospital.  He didn’t realize he’d been walking on eggshells until something in him gave way, and words were thrown that burned worse than acid.  He didn’t know, or want to know, that even something as common as a fight would be so unexpectedly painful and bizarre.

“No Mick, ice won’t help, and neither will the ER,” Ian says, his voice unsteady, “but _you_ fucking would.”

Mickey feels his spine turn to rubber as he slumps forward from the way Ian’s words make him feel boneless.  It’s his turn to remain silent as he downs another gulp of vodka.  His eyes land on the pills scattered all over the kitchen floor, and he isn’t sure when he’ll pick them up.  He knows Ian isn’t going to.

“Of course you choose to get shitfaced,” Ian bites, “so fuck you.”  Mickey hears feet shuffle out of the kitchen, followed by a loud boom from the slamming of his bedroom door. 

He takes way too long to get up and go after him.  Mandy’s always called him a pussy in instances like this, but this time around, there’s no need for his sister’s truth, because he curses inwardly at himself for being this very thing.  He feels weak and longs for a punch to the face or a kick in the ribs over this words thrown business.  There’s something rather painful about words at this point in their lives, especially when he was so careless with his.  Ian’s doing better, but this fragile shit seems to be stained into his skin.  Mickey feels his mind bend as he thinks about his stupidity.

_You’re careless and impetuous, and you break things._

So he sits for a few more moments way too long before taking a deep breath and standing, his mind racing with the usual thoughts.  Fuck bipolar disorder.  Fuck these meds in the floor.  And certainly fuck vodka and the way it makes him sway as he stands, fighting to maintain some sort of balance.  Mickey walks lead-footed to the freezer to grab a pack of peas before heading to his and Ian’s bedroom, taking in the scenery around him as he walks by.  The shattered glass tumblers in the floor.  Jack Daniels on the wall.  Overturned ashtrays.  Half-smoked blunts on the coffee table and in the couch cushions.  The hole in the wall next to the bedroom door.

Mickey runs his fingers over the fist-sized cavity, tracing the chipped paint and drywall that lines the circular shape.  If only he’d been less brash with the way he chose to handle things.

 

_He smelled it as soon as he walked up to the door.  Fucking Mandy and Iggy and their awesome timing._

_Mickey entered the house, already aggravated from his spat he just had with Svetlana at the rub ‘n tug about raises, or some shit.  He forgot half the conversation, because the moment she threw being able to provide for Yevgeny into the conversation, it was in one ear and out the other.  He had enough on his mind as it was, barely being able to get all of Ian’s meds yesterday.  “The fuck?!” he spat as soon as he walked into the living room._

_Mandy’s eyes widened – well as wide as ones stoned by weed could get, waving her hand wildly in the air around her head, trying her best to waft away the smoke that lingered.  As if that would mask the fact the place smelled like a Rastafarian smoke shop.  Ian was sat next to her on the couch, a joint hanging loosely from his lips.  He didn’t react the way Mandy did, simply smiled, not yet as high as he could get which means he probably just joined in.  Iggy was sprawled out on the opposite couch, a bottle of Jack in one hand, a lit spliff in the other.  Mickey’s eyes then noticed the glasses on the coffee table, also containing the dark alcohol._

_“Uh…heya Mickey,” Mandy said nervously as she stood, “you’re home early.”  She was high out of her boney ass and well on the way to drunk, the way she tried too hard to focus her eyes a dead giveaway.  “We were just – “_

_“We had this fucking conversation Mandy,” Mickey cut her off.  His gaze stabbed her, repeatedly, and she seemed to shrink a bit from each jab, slightly lowering her head before sitting back down.  He shook his head as he looked at Ian.  “And what the hell do you think you’re doing, huh?”_

_Ian shrugged, clearly unfazed by his boyfriend’s aggravation.  “Got bored I guess,” he offered._

_“Bored?”  Mickey’s eyebrows rose to the heavens as he moved towards his sister and her best friend.  “Bored Ian?  You serious right now?  You know you can’t do this shit on your fucking meds man.”_

_Ian frowned, finally giving a half-assed reaction before leaning forward on the couch.  He snuffed out the blunt in one of the ashtrays before standing up.  “I know,” he started as inched closer to Mickey, “and I didn’t take them today, ok?”_

_“So what, you just decided to skip your fucking meds to get high and drunk with these idiots?!”  Mickey didn’t realize he was yelling until Ian flinched from his last word.  Still, he continued, his volume increasing.  “You can’t just decide to not take your pills Ian because you’re bored, or wanting to get shitfaced.  What were you thinking?”_

_“That I’m tired of taking all these pills and wanted to just not today.”  Ian’s face flattened.  It wasn’t angry or nervous; rather, it was somewhat exhausted and unsure._

_“Really now?  And the way I bust my ass to get them for you?!”  Mickey was pointing now, and he now had Iggy’s attention, who not surprisingly, silently stood and removed himself to his room._

_Ian walked up to his aggravated boyfriend before placing their faces an inch apart.  “Stop talking to me like I’m a fucking child.  I’m a big boy and can take care of myself.”_

_“Keep telling yourself that,” Mickey bit.  If only he would have chosen his words more wisely._

 

The knob feels heavy under his hands as he turns.  He knows the state Ian is most likely in is far from friendly and too close to agitated.  Mickey’s eyes take in the site of Ian on the bed with his back propped up against the headboard, his hand cradled into his chest.  Although he’s sitting in the dark, there’s enough light coming through the shitty curtains to highlight his frowned face.  He walks hesitantly to the bed and slides next to his boyfriend, placing the frozen peas on the nightstand.  Ian refuses to look at him.

“Can we talk?” Mickey asks.  He feels like such an asshole.

“You’re drunk,” Ian responds blandly.  Mickey feels like an even bigger asshole.

He switches on the lamp on his side of the bed before turning back to Ian.  Mickey feels his heart sink as he notices wet trails starting the dry on Ian’s cheeks.  “Can I at least take a look at your hand?”

“No.”

“Ian, please.”

“I said no.”

Mickey sighs and places the heels of his palms into his alcohol-laden eyelids.  To love the shit out of someone is tiring and painful and chaotic.  And although it hurts right now, he still wouldn’t have it any other way.

 

_Ian’s eyes grew wide with a fury Mickey hadn’t seen since he’d married Svetlana.  In fact, he didn’t think he’d ever seen it.  The red head pursed his lips in anger as he backed up, craning his neck forward before squinting his green eyes as if trying to decide if this person in front of him was Mickey, or an imposter.  “Fuck you,” he said lowly.  Mickey would have retreated given his fragile state, but ego and old temper issues made that nearly impossible._

_“Fuck me?  That how you feel now?” Mickey sneered as he walked forwards, despite Ian walking backwards.  It was a warning clear as day and written between the lines, but Mickey always seemed read things like this wrong – or not at all.  “Fine!  You’re a big boy so do whatever the fuck you want.  See if you don’t wake up out of your mind tomorrow.”_

_He turned to walk away from a fuming Ian, making his way hastily to their bedroom, but before he could retreat Ian lost it.  “So you think I’ll end up crazy?!” Ian screamed as he backed up towards the coffee table, “is that what you think?  Fine!”  If there was a point beyond anger, Ian had surpassed it, easily.  He grabbed up one of the glasses on the table and launched it at the wall near the bedroom door.  Glass shattered and alcohol painted the walls Basquiat style.  Reflexively, Mickey ducked before turning around, his face staggered._

_“What the fuck?!”  Mickey ducked again, the second glass on the table taking flight before connecting with the wall.  Mandy stood from the couch, fear in her eyes as she backed up.  She wanted to say something, but not only was she high and nearly drunk, but she was freaked out by Ian’s sudden outburst._

_How easily he unraveled._

_Ian wasn’t finished.  He picked up the ashtrays, throwing them onto the couch.  At this point, it was search and destroy.  It was a good thing Iggy took the bottle of Jack with him, because it wouldn’t have been exempt from Ian’s rampage.  Ian launched towards Mickey, who was standing in front of the bedroom door, still closed, his feet glued to the floor and his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.  For a second, it looked as if he was going to hit him, but instead, he caged Mickey in with his long arms, placing his large hands on either side of his head._

_“I don’t like feeling like this,” Ian began as he looked Mickey dead in his eyes, “I don’t.  All of these pills, supposed solutions to wipe away my illness when it’s always gonna be there, masked and suppressed, but still lurking like the fucking Grim Reaper just waiting patiently until my mind caves and I deteriorate.  But you wouldn’t understand.”_

_Mickey’s almost hurt by this accusation of not understanding, because if there was anyone who understood, even if vicariously, it was him.  “Don’t tell me I don’t fucking understand Ian,” he said, his voice low and serious.  “I just want you to take your fucking meds and not be careless with…with this.”  ‘This’ clearly indicated bipolar disorder, and it was something about Mickey not saying it that made Ian angry all over again._

_“I’m bipolar!  Just fucking say it!” Ian snapped.  He pushed pass the older boy, barging into their room, before coming back out a moment later with bottles rattling in his hands.  They were his pill bottles, which he opened as he walked up and down the hall and into the kitchen, unceremoniously shaking the pills out everywhere.  He then threw the bottles to the floor before rushing towards the older boy again, slamming his fist into the wall next to Mickey’s head, instantly making a hole there.  Ian wailed in pain as he brought his hand back into his chest.  Of course the Milkovich walls would be as hard as they were._

_Mickey could only look his boyfriend as he cried out in pain.  His blue eyes were fixed in a stare as Mandy rushed over to Ian who was now squirming on the couch in a torturous agony that went beyond the crack of his fist.  “I think his hand is broken,” Mandy said as she looked closely at this hand._

_“Just his hand?”  Mickey’s voice was deliberately cold.  He didn’t ask if Ian was ok, nor did he walk over to check on him.  He only bolted out the door to the porch where he smoked almost half of a pack of cigarettes, filling his lungs aimlessly with smoke._

So he could have been a bit more responsive – more _empathetic_.  Mickey cringes at the thought of benevolence and consideration, because they’re traits that don’t fit him.  Never have, and probably never will.  Yet, he figuratively slugs himself because it would’ve been for Ian, and he came to the consensus long ago that anything goes for his sake, even the things less ordinary. 

“I’m sorry,” he takes a chance and lets the apology roll off of his heavy tongue.  He feels Ian shift next to him, still refusing to look at him, but the tension slowly subsides and a slow breath escapes his mouth. 

“I don’t need your apology Mick,” Ian says as he finally turns to look at him, “I need your word that _this_ won’t ruin us.”  This time Ian chooses not to give his illness its name, but he feels it’s his right, because it’s _his_.

“It won’t,” Mickey sighs, “I won’t let it.”

Ian looks pensively and somewhat unsure about whether or not his partner will be able to keep his word.  He knows Mickey is passionate and protective, determined and dedicated.  He also knows his word is his bond – when he means it.  “Do you mean it?”

“You know I only say what I mean.”

“But do you mean what you say?”

Mickey leans his head back into the wall above the headboard.  He pauses before letting out an exhausted breath.  “Same damn thing Ian.”

“No Mick,” Ian exhales as he turns away from facing his boyfriend, staring straight ahead, “it isn’t.  I can say I love you, because I intended to say it, but do I _mean_ it?”

“I mean it.”

“Just like you meant those things you said to me out there?”  The sting of Ian’s words is unexpected, yet they sting no less.  Mickey feels his insides curl in on themselves as he curses himself for not trying harder to bite his fucking tongue.  “I’m a little fucked up Mick,” Ian continues, “so I’m bound to fuck up now and again.  I don’t feel like I’m thinking straight sometimes.  Not taking my meds, it was careless, but I didn’t think so at the time.  So instead of coming down on me so hard, I need you to support and be there for me, when I fail to be there for myself.”

Mickey feels himself sink into the mattress of the bed.  He remains quiet, allowing Ian’s words to absorb.  He turns to look at the red head, who then leans his head onto his shoulder.  As he watches Ian rest his head against him, he sees his swollen hand and the marks from the punch he threw into the wall sprayed across his knuckles.  Mickey refuses for the bruises to be indicative of their relationship, because now, they’re more than pain and physical damage.  The last remnants of _I hurt you, you love me_ were left in their own blood on the Alibi floor months ago.

So Mickey rests his head on top of Ian’s as he gently maneuvers his badly bruised hand into his lap.  Ian winces from the pain just as his boyfriend grabs the pack of peas and places them onto his hand.  Mickey knows it isn’t broken, because he’s seen enough to recognize what it really looks like, and if there’s one thing he can identify, it’s _brokenness_.  He presses the cold pack gingerly, before allowing his words to cascade over Ian’s head.

“I swear Ian,” Mickey breathes into his hair, “I swear.”

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this installment to the song "Smoke Filled Lungs" by Basecamp (I freaking love them), which I felt, goes along with what Ian and Mickey are going through dealing with Ian's disorder (at least in my head and for this fic). The title is actually a line from the song. I imagine Ian is doing better, but he's still not 100%, and I wanted to highlight his frustration with his illness, and also Mickey's (as well as doubts, fears, etc). I'm aiming for this series to be multiple installments of "firsts" (or seconds, thirds, etc) post Ian's hospital release until I run out of ideas or steam (whichever comes first). So, bear with me... As usual, thanks for reading! :)


End file.
